


House of the Brave

by shakennotstirred (i_think_ill_call_it_a_vesper)



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 08:47:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4298319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_think_ill_call_it_a_vesper/pseuds/shakennotstirred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one could understand why Patroclus had been sorted into Gryffindor. All he seemed to do each day was tail after Gryffindor's Pride and Joy - Achilles. Patroclus wasn't brave. He'd never done anything particularly courageous, besides perhaps accidentally assisting Achilles with a spare prank or two. He's quiet, humble, and hardworking. A delight to his teachers. But his sorting remained a puzzle to everyone. <br/>However, when a start-up band of "Neo Death Eaters" starts to threaten everything the magical world has rebuilt since the Second Wizarding War, Patroclus begins to show his true colors - and they just may be scarlet and gold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House of the Brave

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't decided how to end this yet, so I might make you cry sometime in the future. Like me, you've probably spent too much time crying over these boys. I'm so sorry if it does turn out that way. But who knows? Maybe they'll get their happy ending.
> 
> Some characters are Madeline Miller's.
> 
> Some are J.K. Rowling's. 
> 
> I take no credit for any of these characters.

The question was not a new one. It had begun the moment Patroclus had taken his seat at the Gryffindor table when he was eleven. Why was _he_  in that house? He was a strange boy; he was short, but gangly in his limbs and stocky in his core. Leftover puzzle pieces forced together in an attempt to create some resemblance to the picture on the box. What did he have to be brave about?

The whispers only gained momentum as the years wore on. Patroclus was nothing special. He didn’t belong in the house of the lion. Six years since the sorting hat placed him into the house of the courageous, and he had nothing to show for it.

Achilles was the lion itself. Right down to the golden mane of hair. He was tall, athletic (the center chaser on the Gryffindor quidditch team since his first year), intelligent, kind, and beautiful. He excelled in every course; if not with O’s then with E’s, rarely even an A. His record was second to only Hermione Granger’s, over a decade before. If Patroclus made no sense, Achilles made all the sense in the world.

Their unlikely friendship had begun in third year, when Achilles had taken the bench next to Patroclus in Potions, bypassing all the other hopefuls for the loner in the back of the room.

“Hi,” he’d said. And that was all.

Days passed, then months, and then years. They grew closer, studying charms, writing out infinite inches of essays side by side, ordering pints of butterbeer in Hogsmeade. They didn’t always talk; they didn’t need to. They spent many nights with their shoulders and thighs pressed together, perched precariously on the railing of the astronomy tower. Patroclus would recite the stories behind each constellation, and Achilles would listen.

The questions didn’t stop. Why was Patroclus in Gryffindor?

Why did Achilles spend so much time with someone with no potential?

What would Patroclus ever do that was significant?

απ

For seventh years, the start-of-term feast no longer held any excitement. It was the very same each time, bright-eyed first years trotting fearfully behind McGonagall, eager for their sorting. After, the table filled with food: roasted chicken, buttered corn, mashed potatoes, pitchers of pumpkin juice, and eventually, treacle tart. Then the prefects would lead the first years up to the common room, and all would go to bed.

Patroclus was eager to reach his dorm, and more so to reach Achilles. He had not seen much of him on the train, as Achilles had his Head Boy duties to attend to. At the feast, they had sat side by side, as was usual for them, but Achilles’ attention was desperately craved by all around them, and Patroclus had sat in silence as Gryffindor’s pride and joy recounted his summer.

He’d spent it with his mother, Thetis, on a tiny island off of Greece. Patroclus was not invited along as he had been before to Peleus’ house. Thetis did not approve of Achilles’ friendship with a boy who was going nowhere. Patroclus could not bring himself to begrudge her for that.

Upon finally reaching the top of Gryffindor tower, he was relieved to find Achilles alone, their other dorm mates out of sight. He flopped gracelessly down next to his friend, and allowed the other boy to shuffle down to rest his head on Patroclus’ chest, running his fingers through his soft blonde curls.

They didn’t speak. They drew the curtains shut, so they wouldn’t be disturbed by the arrival of the other boys, and drifted softly into sleep together.

απ

Patroclus woke to an empty bed, but this was nothing new. Achilles often woke early to go down to the quidditch field, meeting with a few others to throw a quaffle around. Sometimes, Patroclus would wake while Achilles untangled himself, and Achilles would give him an apologetic grin and ask him to come down and watch. Patroclus could never say no.

But, as this was not one of those days, Patroclus donned his robes in an empty dorm, and journeyed down to the great hall for breakfast. He piled his plate with eggs and sausages, and loaded a second for Achilles, knowing he would be hungry once he returned.

Sure enough, a large, sweaty mass of boy was soon thumping down next to him, mouth full of eggs before he was even fully seated. He was still in his paddings, with his gloves tucked into his waistband. He turned to grin at Patroclus, giving no thought to the sweat beading in his hairline and sliding down the sides of his face.

“Thanks, Patroclus.” _Pa-tro-clus_. Stretched, syllabic, pronounced with the rhythm of a steady rainfall. _Pa-tro-clus_. “Of course,” Patroclus returned, a smile light on his lips. He listens contentedly as Achilles regales him with tales of the pitch, and continues to listen as they ascend to the dorm together so Achilles can dress. They part ways after that, Patroclus to Arithmancy with the Ravenclaws and Achilles to Divination with Hufflepuff.

Patroclus takes his usual seat next to Briseis, a petite, smart-mouthed Ravenclaw with whom he has shared this class since third year. She latches onto him immediately, bright smiles and idle chatter about gossip that has already sprung up since everyone’s arrival yesterday evening. She quiets only when Professor Odysseus has joined them at the front of the room, writing theories out in steady script on the board.

“How is your golden boy?” she whispers once Odysseus has taken a seat at his desk to allow them to copy theorems and equations. Patroclus bristles.

“He isn’t mine,” he replies, steadfastly not moving his eyes from the board. “And he’s wonderful. He’s never anything else.”

“He’s yours. He looks at you like no one else. You’re just too deep in self-pity to see it.”

“I only wish you were right. But we’ve been friends four years now, and nothing has changed. I will never be to him what he is to me.” Briseis is familiar with this argument. She was first to discover Patroclus’ feelings for his friend two years ago, and has listened to him pine ever since. She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t say anything. It’s a lost cause.

They pack up and walk out together at the end of the lesson. Briseis discusses some of the theorems, and Patroclus nods along.

They turn once they reach the end of the corridor, and descend the stairs. There is some sort of commotion at the bottom. A group of students have gathered around Menelaus, Helen, and Paris. Menelaus’ face is contorted into a pained expression, and he is gripping his girlfriend’s arm rather desperately. Patroclus and Briseis exchange a look. Helen’s promiscuity is no secret. Menelaus himself is suspected to be aware of this, and seems to turn a blind eye to what he doesn’t want to see. No one can truly fault him; Helen is beautiful. Everyone had been shocked when she accepted his advances fifth year. The match between the kind, intelligent Ravenclaw boy and the flighty, cunning Slytherin was expected by no one. But no one had batted an eye when rumors began that Helen was still warming the beds of her fellow Slytherins, namely Paris.

It seemed that it had finally come to a head now, as Menelaus continued to unsuccessfully try to pull Helen from the throng. She herself looked torn; she could not choose between her lovers. Paris was smirking, his fingers twined with hers, making no effort whatsoever to move away.

Suddenly, Menelaus gave up his hopeless battle, swung around, and hit Paris squarely on the jaw.

This was new.

Soon enough it was a full on brawl, and students continued to crowd around, uncaring that they were late for class. They were picking sides, cheering one or the other on, and Helen was screaming from the sidelines, watching in horror as blood spattered on the stones.


End file.
